


we were never human

by thermodynamicActivity (chlorinetrifluoride)



Series: The Collegestuck 'Verse [21]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Police Brutality, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:34:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chlorinetrifluoride/pseuds/thermodynamicActivity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they never see your intentions, or your aspirations. they only note your skin tone, as kankri learns in 2007, during his fourth year of high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we were never human

"by virtue of my skin tone, i am a threat," mr. vandayar says one day in AP US history. "and the state has a tendency to deal with threats using lethal force."

being a rich white guy, cronus calls bullshit, and you add that to the list of reasons why you want to kill him. you’re seven months into the school year, and so far, you have six hundred and fifty seven.

a year later, the words mr. v spoke would seem nearly prophetic. but not yet. right now, you are still laughing and complaining about how cold it is outside.

the cops are parked outside the bodega on E204th that you and kankri frequent to buy funyuns during your free period, and you think little of it.

wary, slightly, but not enough to turn tail and walk back to school.

that is, until they stop kankri, grab him roughly by his shoulder, turn him around and slam him up against the car. he is quisqueyano, but dark enough to be read as black. he even identifies as black first, and dominican second.

in the end it does not matter, in the eyes of the NYPD, what he is.

privileged from growing up in park slope, he doesn’t understand. 

"officers, what seems to be the issue?" he asks mildly, nervously.

"we saw you," officer one mutters. "we saw you stealing potato chips from the store."

and kanny never knows when to shut up. he has not been trained. instead of hanging his head and apologizing, he protests again, insisting that they must be wrong. and when they circle him, like vultures after prey, he snaps.

"but i didn’t _fucking_   _do_ anything!"

in return, he earns a nightstick to the abdomen. doubled over, he looks over at you, already across the street, mouthing the word  _"run."_ _  
_

but you, your skin the color of cafe-au-lait, know to never run from cops. they will assume you’re armed and begin to shoot. you are too young to die. your heart hammers in your ears, as if knowing its beats may be numbered.

he protests again, and they hit him with the nightstick, the sickly snap of a broken nose echoing in the February air. you drop your AP Physics textbook on the ground, spine up. you drop your bag, your binder, and your class schedule beside it.

you walk over to these two white officers. hoping to god they don’t shoot you down for taking an object out of your pocket, you remove your school ID, blue because you are now a senior. you try to give it to them before they strike again.

 _Maryam, Porrim._  
_216000752_  
_Class of 2007  
Date of Birth: 09/14/1990_

in a split second decision, more impulse than calculation, you jump in front of kankri when they make to hit him a third time.

_not kankri, not the boy you've grown up with, insufferable as he is. not him, never him._

_hit me instead._

so their blow catches you at the base of your skull, and you see stars.

you will not cry in front of these bullies clad in navy blue. you’ll die with your dignity. you are trickling blood into your braids.

"please," you finally beg, gazing at the man with the truncheon. you hand your ID to him like some kind of peace offering. "we go to school together, over on 205th. we’re on our free period. we just wanted to get something to eat before math team."

you crawl to kankri’s bag, remove his own identification, and show them.

if you’d gone to any other school in the Bronx, you’d be in the back of the police cruiser, arrested for no goddamn reason. but you are a specialized high school student, and going to such a school affords you certain privileges.

instead of being arrested, kankri has a broken nose, and you might have a concussion.

this is your privilege.

your head bleeds down the back of your dress.

the school nurse tends to the wound, suggests that you get checked out at the hospital after class, but the bloodstain remains for the rest of the day.

except for mituna, meenah and latula, you tell everyone else that you fell down. nobody believes this, but nobody wants to ask. 

kankri, who has a mild blood clotting disorder, ends up going to the hospital behind the nosebleed that will never end.

you skip all your classes, hide in an abandoned stairwell, and weep.

after ninth period, you sit beside mr. vandayar and the mr. cao in room 307D.

mr. cao's there in the history department to antagonize his old college roommate. 

you’re still crying, not out of pain, but out of something deeper and harder to articulate.

"he did nothing! he bought funyuns!" you exclaim. "they broke his nose!"

mr. v's lips twitch as if he might start crying himself. but he keeps his composure, pours himself another cup of coffee. mr. c grades AP Physics C exams and pretends to not feel disquiet.

"thith thythtem ith fucked up," he finally says. "i am tho, tho thorry, popo. will you file charges?"

"not like they won’t throw it out of court anyway," mr. vandayar retorts. "to these people, we are nothing. we were never even human."

one day, your tall, serious sister will learn this lesson for herself. little adwoa, calling herself kanaya. so talented at sewing. one day facing down the smash of a truncheon, or worse yet, the blowback of a smoking gun.

mr. cao puts a hand on your shoulder, in a rare gesture of tenderness.

"i can’t understand what you go through." he is mainland chinese, ostensibly one of the "good" minorities. "but i’m not thtupid enough to think that it’s right."

mr. vandyar nods, tells you how he is tired of seeing his people beaten in the street, of being stopped on his walk to school and having to flash his faculty ID.

and he has faced flack for many facets of his identity, not just his skin tone.

"i held hands with my boyfriend on the 1 train, once, when i was an undergraduate. the person across from us called us faggots for eight straight stops."

you nod, mutely.

"i remember," mr. cao says. "and i remember refusing to let go of you."

half an hour later, they send you to the woman they’ve dubbed dolomom - your guidance counselor, ms. martineau - and you end up sobbing in her office for two hours.

when you get home, you throw away the dress you wore today.

some things must be forgotten.


End file.
